


Christmas, Minus A Spirit

by KiranInBlue



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Caretaking, Christmas Angst, Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6941752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The holidays are rough when your best friend doesn't want to get out of bed. At least, other friends can make things feel a little warmer. (Outtake for Chapter 26 of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5321714/chapters/12286859">Moving On, Forward</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies">pushingcrazies</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas, Minus A Spirit

Andrew stared after Jonathan, lost - for once - for anything to say. When he’d seen Jonathan standing there in the kitchen, dressed and shaven and rifling through the fridge, Andrew had felt relief wash over him like a cleanse. For a moment, all the worry and stress and weariness of the past few weeks fell away. He’d thought, just maybe, they’d had a Christmas miracle. 

But Jonathan was Jewish. Did Christmas miracles even apply to him? 

Andrew looked down at the action figure on the table. Dimly, he realized that the same features that had earlier struck him as so confident and powerful - reflecting Beast’s true animalistic nature - suddenly looked rather sad. As if the little guy knew he’d been rejected. 

Andrew sniffed hard against the pressure building in his sinuses. He gathered Beast up in his arms and tucked his forehead against the tiny head. Beast was too small to hug properly, but the press of his shape against Andrew’s shoulder made Andrew feel a little less alone. Andrew sank down onto the couch, hiccuping quiet sobs. 

* * *

Finally, the tears dried up and Andrew lay still, staring wearily at the Christmas tree. The sun had come up properly now and the light glinted off the ornaments, but it didn’t look very Christmas-y.

_ Why?  _ the tree seemed to ask.  _ Why doesn’t Jonathan love us?  _

_ I don’t know, tree,  _ Andrew thought.  _ I just don’t know _ . 

It was almost eight o’clock. Angel’s Christmas breakfast was starting soon. For a moment, Andrew toyed with just not going, but the thought of fresh-baked rolls and spiced eggnog still had their draw. Besides, Andrew had presents for everyone, and he’d promised to lend a hand with the later Christmas dinner, especially so that Angel could stay true to his nocturnal nature and nip a nap in the afternoon. 

Andrew pushed himself up from the sofa and carefully tucked Beast under the Christmas tree, bending the figure’s legs so that he was sitting comfortably at the base. Then he went over to Jonathan’s room and knocked lightly on the door. “Jonathan? I’m going to the hotel for breakfast. Do you want to come?” 

There was no answer. Andrew hadn’t really expected one. 

Andrew took the car. He still thought of it as ‘Jonathan’s car’, even though it had been a while since Jonathan had driven it. The Christmas morning streets were quiet, but they were framed with wintery decorations and with homes that looked warm. Somehow, that made the passenger seat seem even emptier. 

But when Andrew entered the hotel, it was with a lopsided smile and a large bag clasped in his hands (not a proper sack, but a trash bag had kinda the same effect). “Merry Christmas!” he declared. “I come bearing benevolent gifts.” 

“Well, I’d  _ hope  _ they weren’t unbenevolent,” Gunn commented wryly, as he came down the stairs. He looked sleepy and cheerful, dressed in a lumpy Christmas sweater and boxers. But as he took in the image of Andrew standing there in the doorway, a sad look came over his expression. “Jonathan couldn’t make it, huh?” 

“We, um. Had an early Christmas,” Andrew muttered evasively. 

“Aw, shame to miss him,” Fred came up behind Gunn. “We’re delighted t’ have you here, though.” 

“Thanks. Um, where is everyone?” Andrew peered around the empty lobby carefully, as if expecting to find Lorne blended in with the decorations. 

“Sleeping, mostly. ‘Cept for Angel. He’s cooking.” 

“Not sure how anyone can sleep late on  _ Christmas _ ,” Gunn put in. “Downright disrespectful when you’ve got presents and food.” 

“I’ve been up since three,” Andrew agreed solemnly. 

“Now that’s a little much. But sun’s up now, and it’s time for everyone to get their lazy asses out of bed. Wanna come wake them?” 

Andrew’s eyes lit up, and hastened to drop his sack of gifts by the tree so he could race after Fred and Gunn. 

Upstairs, Fred wrenched the covers off of Wesley, and Andrew and Gunn each grabbed a bare ankle to drag him off the mattress. All three of them completely ignored Wesley’s vocal protests. Lorne was more amenable to being roused; he looked rather amused at their enthusiasm and readily agreed to getting up provided there was a proper Christmas eggnog waiting for him downstairs. “And don’t skimp on the rum,” he reminded them. Cordelia, on the other hand, chucked a pillow at Andrew’s face when his knees bounced onto the end of her bed. But even she rolled out from under the covers at the promise of presents, albeit grumbling a little.

When they got to Connor’s room, there was a fierce debate outside the door whether or not to even try. Fred thought Connor wouldn’t have the best humor about being dragged out of bed. Gunn thought a bad attitude was no excuse to sleep through Christmas morning. While they were still arguing, the door suddenly swung open. Connor took in each of their stunned expressions and said simply: “Merry Christmas.” Then, he set off down the hall.

So when they all made their way back downstairs, Andrew was greeted by a lobby full of people and the growing smells of cinnamon and sugar. Lorne had retrieved his eggnog and was sipping it by the bottom of the stairs; Cordelia and Wesley were commiserating about the unusual cruelty of being dragged from their beds on Christmas Day; Connor was eyeing Andrew’s sack of gifts with suspicion. There was no crackling fire and no drifting snow outside, but it was more Christmas than Andrew had ever seen before in his life. 

But then, Cordelia looked up at Andrew and said: “I guess Jonathan didn’t drag himself out?” And, to Andrew, everything came crashing down. 

It couldn’t be properly Christmas without Jonathan. And Jonathan didn’t even want to come out of his room. Didn’t even want his present. Didn’t even want to spend time with Andrew. 

“No,” Andrew said, not quite meeting Cordelia’s eyes. He suddenly felt a little queasy. “But, you know, he doesn’t really celebrate it. Jewish and everything.” Which hadn’t stopped him from laughing at the Star Wars Christmas special with Warren and Andrew last year, while devouring Andrew’s tree-shaped cookies. Last year, it hadn’t stopped him from accepting his gifts. 

“We’ll save him some food,” Fred promised. 

“I think it’s time for everyone to have an eggnog,” Lorne said, coming up to Andrew and touching his shoulder. “Come help me with that?” 

Andrew nodded and quickly followed Lorne out of the room. 

As they made their way down to the kitchen, Lorne asked: “How’re you holding up, pumpkin?” 

“What? Um, I’m fine.” 

“You don’t have to sing for me to know how much turmoil your aura is in right now. Which isn’t at all surprising. When someone’s soul is storming as bad as Jonathan’s is, it tends to blow out strong winds that make for some truly nasty weather for everyone around them.” 

Andrew looked up at Lorne, opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say. 

Lorne clasped his shoulder again. “Storms pass, honeybun. But if you need help weathering it, you’ve got good friends here.” 

Still wordless, Andrew nodded. 

Down in the kitchen, Andrew prepared a tray laden with cups of eggnog. Before he could help Lorne carry it back up, however, Angel called, asking Andrew to poach some eggs for him.

“I’ve got it,” Lorne assured him, as Andrew stared helplessly between Lorne and Angel. “Go help our Michelin-star vampire.” 

“But I-I don’t even know how to poach eggs,” Andrew protested.  “They always come out funny.” 

“I guess I can do it,” Angel mused. “But it’ll be after I finish the hollandaise.” 

“Hey, Angel-cakes, why don’t you be a dear and show our boy how to do the first one?” Lorne suggested, as he hefted up the tray with a practiced gesture. 

“Oh, uh. Sure. Right. Andrew, come here.” 

“Go on,” Lorne urged Andrew. “Keeping your head busy makes it harder to dwell.” 

“Thank you,” Andrew murmured, and followed Lorne’s direction.

Angel demonstrated the proper way to poach an egg (apparently, Andrew’s idea of a ‘gentle simmer’ had been a bit too aggressive) and then left him to it. By the time Andrew had a half-dozen acceptable eggs perched on toasted muffin and ham and just waiting for Angel’s hollandaise, he was feeling a little more cheerful. At the very least, he didn’t feel like a flood of tears was welling up behind an ever-thinning wall of willpower anymore. 

As soon the dishes were set, Angel and Andrew brought them up  to those still waiting impatiently around the tree. It looked a little funny, in Andrew’s opinion, to have everyone sitting around on the floor with beautifully-presented plates of eggs benedict and garlic potatoes, but it was cozy. He sat down with his own plate at the base of the reception desk, right by where the bulging stockings were hung. 

“These look  _ amazing _ ,” Fred said reverently, as Angel handed her a plate. “Thank you so much, guys.” 

Andrew lifted his chin, but there was a pang in the pride that suffused him. It’d been a while since his cooking had been met with anything but stoic indifference or outright rejection. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed even a smile in thanks. 

For a moment, everything quieted as the members of Angel Investigations set into their company breakfast. Gunn and Fred ate the fastest, almost as if they were in competition. Andrew understood; the faster everyone ate, the faster they got to presents. 

Indeed, they didn’t even wait for Connor to finish picking at his plate when Cordelia got up and strode right over to the tree.

“Alright, who’s up first?” 

“Shouldn’t we start with the stockings?” Fred pointed out, eyeing the gifts dangling above Andrew’s head. 

“Who filled those, anyway?” Gunn asked. 

Angel lifted his hand a little self-consciously. “Just, uh. A little something for everyone. Employee appreciation.”

“Alright, stockings it is,” Cordelia declared. She moved back over to the reception desk and plucked the stockings from their perch. “Okay, we’ve got me, Wesley, Fred, Gunn, Lorne, Connor, Andrew . . . and Jonathan’s not here, so you can hold onto his and bring his presents back for him.”

And suddenly, Andrew’s throat felt very tight. The tears that had receded back in the kitchen were prickling behind his eyes again, so fast and strong that it was as if they’d never left at all.  “You . . . you got Jonathan presents?” 

“Well, of course we did,” Cordelia said distractedly, shoving two stockings into Andrew’s lap as she began to dig into her own. “I wrapped them all in blue, so he can’t complain about them being too Christmas-y.” 

Andrew gathered the stockings up closer to him. There was a long, thin box in his stocking, but in Jonathan’s -- there was a neatly wrapped bundle, and although Andrew could not see through the bag, distinct scents tickled his nose. St. John’s wort, yarrow, lavender. Andrew didn’t know much about herbs, but he knew that these three shared a common use. They were all for magical banishment of depression. 

Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and sniffed hard. It felt as if there was a weird echo-yness in his head. Jonathan was sick. Jonathan wasn’t getting better. When Andrew forgot about it, he felt okay, enthused for Christmas and his poached eggs and his presents. But inevitably, he remembered. He remembered that Jonathan was still lying in bed, and that at the end of the day Andrew would be returning to a soulless house. 

“Andrew?” Fred asked worriedly. “Are you okay?” 

“I--,” he began. He meant to tell her  _ I’m fine, just have some mild allergies to yarrow you know _ . But then suddenly, he was crying. 

Loud, hiccuping sobs shook his shoulders and tears splashed onto the fabric of his stocking. There were hands on his back, hands in his hair, gentle and stroking and soothing, and somehow that just made him cry harder, and he twisted around to clutch Fred, who had come over to hold him. 

There was someone on Andrew’s other side. “There, there, honeybun.” Lorne. “Can you drink something?” 

Andrew managed a shaky nod, and then a cool glass was pressed to his lips. The water didn’t do much to chase away the ache in his chest, but it at least gave his mouth and hands something to do. He sipped at the water slowly, still sniffling between sips, and wiped hard at the tears staining his cheeks with one hand. When he finally finished the glass, the tears had slowed. 

Andrew peeked up at the room from under his matted eyelashes: everyone was watching him, presents forgotten. Andrew clutched his glass a little tighter, feeling his ears grow warm with self-consciousness. 

“Jonathan . . . Jonathan won’t want the presents,” he mumbled. “Not because he’s Jewish. Because he doesn’t care anymore. I got him a 1994 Toy Biz Beast and he -- he didn’t want it.” Andrew felt the tears suddenly surge behind his eyes again, but he choked them back. 

“Oh, Andrew,” Fred murmured. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do?” 

Andrew shrugged one shoulder. He couldn’t think of anything that would make all  _ this  _ go away. Nothing that would turn things back to the way they were before. “I want to go home.” 

“Sure, kid,” said Gunn. “Want me to drive you back to your apartment?” 

Andrew shook his head. “Not  _ there _ .” It didn’t feel like home. He wanted to go back to Sunnydale; he wanted to curl up in his tiny bed at his aunt’s house in the bedroom that was always a little too drafty. But when Gunn stared at him in bewilderment, Andrew just curled a little closer in on himself. 

Cordelia snagged the hem of Andrew’s stocking, which was tucked between his torso and legs. She dragged it out and shoved the whole thing back in Andrew’s arms. “Okay, Jonathan doesn’t want his presents. His loss. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t open yours.” 

Andrew blinked down at it. “I--” 

“Open it,” Cordelia ordered. 

Almost unthinkingly, Andrew obliged. He drew out the long box and tore off the reindeer-patterned paper. The box underneath was black, and when he pulled off the top, he found, nestled in dark foam, a  _ gorgeous _ chef’s knife. Andrew let out a soft gasp. 

“Nice, isn’t it? Angel was so proud of himself when he picked it out,” Cordelia said. She pushed another, larger parcel at him. “That one’s from me.” 

It was a fleece-lined olive green jacket with a gray hood and twin pockets over the chest. Some scuffing at the hem betrayed it as secondhand, but overall, the jacket was in excellent shape. 

“Your choice of wardrobe isn’t doing you any favors. That should at least fit you, and you need to wear more autumn and warm spring colors.” 

Following Cordelia’s lead, the others handed Andrew their presents for him. From Wesley he had a text in the Sycoran language; from Gunn he got worn copies of the Jurassic Park books. Fred had gotten him a spy kit, complete with invisible ink and pens with secret compartments. Lorne got him a soft scarf, in a versatile light gray. Even Connor had given him a Blockbuster gift card. 

At the end of it all, surrounded by wrapping paper and gifts and friends, Andrew started sniffling again. But at least he was smiling. 

"You guys are so cool," he said reverently, pressing his face against the soft fabric of his new scarf. "You're like, my own X-men squad." 

"Okay, weird compliments aside, you doing better now?" Cordelia asked. 

Andrew nodded. 

“Great, so who’s up next? Anyone going to jump in? Okay, I’ll go.” Cordelia cheerfully dug into her own employee appreciation stocking and squealed to find a set of gorgeous golden earrings inside. 

The rest of the gift opening progressed more cyclically, with each person opening one present before the next person took their turn. Andrew, having already opened all his presents, used his turns to give out the gifts he’d brought from home. Connor blinked rather perplexedly at the Star Wars novelization he unwrapped, but Gunn let out a bark of happy laughter at his CD of the Swan Lake score. 

No one again mentioned the small pile of presents addressed to Jonathan that lay, untouched, under the tree. 

When the last of the gifts had been opened, most of the group - minus Angel, who went to nap -  migrated into one of the floor level rooms to start a Christmas Day movie marathon. Andrew thoroughly enjoyed snuggling in the comforter of the queen-sized bed, squeezed between Cordy and Fred, until he realized halfway through Home Alone 2 that he’d have to leave the little movie party shortly to start cooking. 

“Maybe we can move a TV into the kitchen,” Fred suggested, when Andrew voiced his concerns. 

“But I don’t wanna watch it  _ alone _ !” Andrew had whined. 

And so that’s how Angel Investigations ended up having their Christmas Day movie marathon in the vast hotel kitchen, using chrome counters and the bare tile as their seats. 

Through the rest of the day at the hotel, Andrew was never alone. Whether he was cooking, or lazing by the tree in a food coma, he had company -- company that seemed genuinely happy to have him around. Whenever he thought about Jonathan, there was an unhappy twisting in his tummy, but while he was at the hotel with everyone else, he felt like he could at least breathe. 

But eventually, the last of the pie was cleared away and the nightcaps were drained, and people startled shambling toward bed. There were countless empty rooms at the hotel, but Andrew couldn’t bear to leave Jonathan alone in an empty apartment overnight. Fred hugged him fiercely before he left, the elf hat perched on her head jingling merrily with the movement. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” she advised him. “‘S’okay if you need a break, and we’re all here for you.” 

Andrew nodded solemnly, and swung the sack full of Jonathan’s gifts over his shoulder. “I’ll try to bring him with me next time.” 

Fred smiled at that, a little sadly. 

* * *

Andrew returned home to an apartment that crawled with lifelessness. The lights had never been turned on; Jonathan’s uneaten latkes from that morning were still on the coffee table.

“Jonathan?” Andrew called, anxiety acidic in his mouth. 

There was no response. But Jonathan’s door was unlocked, and when Andrew pushed it open, he heard soft snoring. 

Andrew let out a breath. “Jonathan?” he said again, softer. Jonathan still didn’t stir, and so Andrew carefully slid the sack of gifts inside and shut the door behind him.

Suddenly, Andrew felt very tired. But he couldn’t bear to return to the empty living room and curl up alone, where he’d listen to the deafening silence until he finally dozed off. So instead, he went to shower and change into his warmest fleece pyjamas, and then he returned to Jonathan’s room. 

Andrew tiptoed around the half-eaten plates of food and haphazard piles of old clothes, and gingerly slipped under the covers next to Jonathan. Jonathan’s heat radiated out, permeating the whole bed after so many hours of his presence. If Andrew closed his eyes, just focusing on the warmth and the continuing snores, he could pretend it was another one of their old sleepovers from years ago. Just a sleepover. In the morning, Jonathan’s mother would come wake them to ask them what they wanted for breakfast, and there’d be pancakes, and Jonathan would argue with Andrew over their orange juice about Peter Jackson’s interpretation of The Two Towers, which of course they’d both seen. Just a sleepover. 

“Good night, Jonathan,” Andrew murmured softly. 

Jonathan didn’t reply. 


End file.
